PLAYMATE: By Winston Ash
Wednesday, December 21st, 2011Quinton questioned his son about the birthday party he’d just attended. “How many children were there?”
The little imp gave a happy grin. “Twenty-two,” he said.
“How many?”
He threw up his arms. “Twenty-two,” he repeated, as if the words had a magic cadence to them, an enchanting rhythm that appealed to his five-year old being. Quinton gave him a palms-up greeting while his hands were still up.
“Cool,” he said. “That’s cool. Who did you see there?”
His little face twisted, his mouth moving around as he taxed his memory. “Little boys and girls,” he said after a while, and went back to completing his jigsaw puzzle.
Well, that’s that, Quinton thought. Why did this number keep cropping up? The number in two cricket teams, a double-legged number. A goldmine for Bingo callers, he remembered. Twenty-two, dinky-doo, and so on.
Sarah was more down to earth. “Kids see things we don’t. And Rexie lives in a world of his own, I’ll admit.”
Quinton felt his eyebrows rising. The mystery deepens, he realised.
“Yes, Rexie also doesn’t mention the names of his friends from his playgroup.” Yet, somehow he’s not alone when he plays here at home, he added.
Sarah lifted her cup of tea and took a careful sip. “Imagination,” she muttered. “Remember, he’s still learning to talk. A lot of the time he just uses the wrong words.”
“Still learning, at his age?” And using wrong words, like twenty-two?
Quinton stood up and fetched a family photo from off the mantelpiece.
Holding it up to Sarah. “You, me and Rexie. Right?”
“So? What are you getting at?”A frown creased her forehead. She was avoiding his question. He leant towards her. “Who’s not present in the picture?”
Sarah’s eye misted over. Quinton reached out for her hand. To help her face up to what he now knew. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye.
Twenty-two, Winnie the Pooh. The rhyme rose unbidden between them. Quinton felt a third presence, between them, clamouring for attention. He could hear little cries in the back of his mind.
“Rexie didn’t cry when Winnie died.” The words came out reluctantly, as if a deep pain was being eased from inside her. Something that was being exposed for the first time in the two long since the baby died.
She sighed. “It’s more than just a memory he’s always playing with.”
Quinton put an arm round her shoulder to steady her. Sarah could see Winnie as well.
_______________________________
©2011 Winston Ash
The writer is a 70-year-old retired accountant who has discovered the joys of writing fiction. Living alone allows his imagination free rein to search the world of the spirit in search of other-world stories.
